The Tale of the Eledwen (Temporary Hiatus)
by AnironEndor
Summary: I was born in this world. The first time that my eyes opened, the first breath I ever took, they belonged to this world. I will die in this world. The last time I move my lips in speech, the last time I stand upon the earth, these moments will belong to this world. But just because this world is where I began, and where I end, that doesn't mean it is the only one that I belong to.
1. Beginnings

_South West England_

_Autumn 2014_

~.o0 Jazmine Black 0o.~

'Explain and justify Lee's use of the theme of respect and equality throughout her novel "To Kill a Mockingbird" and express your personal views on how effective you believe the usage is.' The question reads.

I let out a sigh of exasperation, select a new cartridge for my pen, test the ink a couple of times just to make sure that the plastic had been pierced in the right place, and scribble down a reply. 'Explain, using full sentences, exactly what you were injecting into your eyeballs at the precise time you came up with this question. Include where you bought it, how much it cost, and your address so that I might report you to the police for taking class A illegal drugs.'

A knock on my door makes me jump. I yank my iPod touch off the desk and pause it on a still of Matt Smith pulling a face remarkably similar to that of a drunk penguin I drew in my Maths book two days ago.

"Come in," I say uncertainly, covering my English book with an elbow.

"Minie, it's me." A voice calls. The door swings open, jamming shut on a crate filled with paperbacks I brought home from a second hand book sale yesterday evening. A muttered curse comes from behind the half-open door across the room, then a foot appears as kicks the box out of the way. My mother's head pokes round the door, her thin face in an encouraging smile. Her once red hair now flecked with grey is ruffled and messed up, like she's just woken up.

"Sleep well?" I ask casually, trying not to draw attention to the purple exercise book on my desk.

Mum blinks sleepily, and nods.

"I'm taking you to Youth Club in ten minutes. You need to finish off and go get your shoes on."

"Okay." I say, over cheerily, reaching for my tipp-ex in what I hope looks like a casual and off-handed way. Mum yawns and turns to leave, before turning back.

"Didn't you say you had an English essay you wanted my help with?"

I roll my eyes. Ex-teachers never lose the homework obsession, especially not this one. I don't even know why she's so fussed- she taught the infant class for goodness' sake! They don't even get homework at the age of five!

"Ummm... yeah. Later maybe. It's not a big deal. I think it's only due Wednesday."

Mum nods again, and closes the door behind her. I check my planner. The essay is due tomorrow morning. Dammit.

Hurriedly I scribble over the lines of blue pen with the white fluid, checking the clock as I do so. It's quater-to. The youth club doesn't start until six. The clock must be broken. Again.

With a sigh, I scrabble around on my bed, dragging my phone out from under piles and piles of physics revision, drafts for GCSE art course work (still drying), half written biology essays and some shredded sheets of Grade Eight music theory practice papers. So much for a Sunday off.

My poncho lies in a heap on the floor where I yanked it off after church this morning. Quickly, so as not to make me late and send Mum into a spin, I untangle the black wool and pull the whole thing the right way out, slipping it over my head and lifting my red braid out from under the loose collar. I take a second to glance up and inspect myself in the long mirror that hangs opposite my desk. My glasses are smudged in odd places. My jeans are covered in grass stains. There is a beautiful new crop of ugly red spots blossoming under my chin. I look disgusting.

If I had time, or if I cared, I might try and do something about my less-than-adequate appearance, but Mum's voice trails through the house from downstairs, and I have no time to do anything other than roll my eyes at my reflection and scuttle down the staircase to the hallway.

Something about it seems very final. Very rehearsed. Very nervous. As though something huge is about to happen.

* * *

The black Ford Mondeo starts up smoothly, although the familiar rattling from the back seat fills my head and makes it hard to concentrate. I sit shotgun, something I still find weird, what with Harvey driving himself everywhere and all. I find it hard to process the fact that my dorky, socially awkward, video game obsessed big brother is actually eighteen. He's so immature for his age.

The traffic is relatively quiet as we head into town, but we have to stop a couple of times for roadworks. Mum chats happily about my upcoming biology mock, apparently unaware that she's talking to herself. It's been a long weekend, and I struggle to keep my eyes open. I need sugar, and preferably large amounts of garlic. You can't get too much garlic.

Anthea's silver people carrier is already waiting outside the community rooms, and I catch a glimpse of a large Golden Retriever in the cage at the back.

"Maggie!" I smile, clambering out of the car and towards Anthea's. The dog greets me cheerily through the glass, wagging her long tail enthusiastically in an arc of pure destruction. She whines when I walk away, clearly eager to be out, but somehow I don't think breaking into the Youth Worker's car is a good idea. I'd get charged extra subs.

Two tiny year eight boys rush past me as I enter the community hall, fighting ferociously over a half finished packet of fruitella. They're so busy fighting over the sweets that they dash right into me, almost knocking me over.

"Watch it!" I growl, glaring down at them and really playing up the tough fifteen year old card. "Mind yourselves little creeps!" They scatter off in the general direction of outside garden supporting terrified looks. As the run off, I chuckle to myself, and spotting Dan leaning against the radiator avidly typing away on his old Nokia Lumia, I walk over to join him.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, "Do these kids not know the meaning of the word respect?" He doesn't reply- he's too engaged in whatever he's posting on Facebook.

"Suit yourself," I grumble, reaching for my own phone. "Hey Blaze." I look up as Blaze runs panting through the doors of the main hall, covered in sherbet.

"What the hell happened to you?" Blaze isn't his real name, his real name is Fred, but there were four other Fred's in his primary school class when he moved to the town, so they nicknamed him Blaze because of his fiery hair and fiery attitude to everything. Including authority figures. I have to admit that Blaze and I have a bit of a thing. Not a romantic sort of thing, a sort of bromance thing that sparked as soon as we met each other when we were just starting secondary school and formed a sort of ginger respect club. Most people figure he is a pain in the backside, but once you get to know him as I do, he's actually a pretty cool guy. He gets picked on a lot, partly because he's annoying, partly because of his hair, and partly because he is so short that he often gets mistaken for a year eight himself. Not that he cares. I don't think he holds much regard for the opinion of others. We tease him about it a lot though. It's funny watching him get annoyed.

"Stupid year eights!" He curses, "They are so annoying!"

"I know! And I swear we were never that small, never! Maybe in like, I dunno, year five, perhaps..." I don't say anything else. Blaze is beginning to glare daggers at me. Dan, however, finally drags himself away from his phone and shoves it into his ratty shorts pocket, ready to mention what I was going to let be.

"Well, maybe Blaze was..." An almost empty Rolo packet suddenly appears in Blaze's hand, and flies across the room, colliding at full speed with Dan's face.

"Why you little-" Blaze cackles mischievously and makes a dash for it, Dan running at top speed after him. I allow myself a brief smile. English homework can wait. I know I will regret it tomorrow, but I'm under so much pressure from School at the moment that I feel inclined to just give up and take the consequences as they come.

"Sorry I'm late guys! Had to run down to Iceland after I opened up for some stuff for the session tonight!" Anthea the youth worker bustles through the doors, instantly drawing all eyes to her. Her lurid green jacket and laptop bag are dumped unceremoniously on the table, the Kindle Fire in her hand set down more gently.

"Dan- tell your Mum she's a saint for me, would you."

Dan shrugs, pausing his pursuit of Blaze for a second, "She's only in the other room." Becky walks in at that instant, and Anthea becomes engrossed in telling her just how wonderful she is, but my eyes are suddenly drawn away from the adults socialising and towards the skulking figure just outside the set of glass double doors. Anthea catches my gaze and comes over.

"Hey Minie! How's your week been?" I force myself to focus. It couldn't possibly be him. There's no way on earth that he could be here... Is there?

"Awful, as usual." I moan, "What with exams and coursework and mountains of homework. I swear the teachers are trying to drive us insane."

Anthea grimaces.

"I'm sure that's not the case. Anyway, that over there is the guy I was talking to you about on Wednesday, I told you-"

"I know him."

"Do you? That's great! I brought him along because I figured that-"

"Can you excuse me a second, please?"

Anthea throws me a glance that clearly means she thinks I'm a little out of it. I'm not normally this rude. Not to her, anyway.

"Umm... Yeah... Sure..."

I step around her and stare through the doors to the figure outside. As she walks off, miffed, to talk to someone behind me that I can't see, the figure turns, and I catch a glimpse of his face through the curtain of dark hair that covers it.

It can't be him.

But it is.

* * *

_It was January. The ground and the trees were covered in frost, and the sky was grey and full of the kind of clouds that could open at any second. It was a school trip with the history department, not that you could tell by what was going on. We'd already been through France and the northern part of Germany, and had seen all of the old battlefields that we were ever going to. The day was a filler day- a day of waiting that was necessary due to the departure time of our return flight. Some idiot had booked it a day too late, and consequently we had a day to kill after the main body of the trip in Hannover and the surrouding area. I remember being indignant at the delay. Why Hannover airport had been booked was a mystery to me- the city was hours out of our way, and had we chosen somewhere a little closer to home we might have shaved hours off of our time the previous day. I was also furious at how our day was to be spent. Instead of being allowed to have a free reign around the city of Hannover (and investigate the German bookshops- something I had been dying to do ever since we arrived), we were to be taken to an animal park. It was hours away from the city. Far too many hours. But one of the teachers, a young blonde technology teacher who was only on the trip because it paid well, had been there as an infant with her parents, and thought it would be a great idea to take a group of rowdy and frustrated teenagers who really didn't care about goats or budgies back to the place where she had been so happy as a child._

_It wasn't very promising._

_To my delight, however, my history teacher spotted on the way up to this park that there was a beautiful old stone castle on the hill overlooking the park, and after a quick Google search on his smartphone discovered that the castle had been part of the Grimm brother's inspiration for the fairy tale sleeping beauty, and said that anyone who would rather go around the castle with him that stroke fat piglets all day could come with him. Most of the class were as unenthusiastic about this as they were the park, but I was among the handful that were genuinely interested._

_As the small group of us trudged up the frosty path to the castle gates, I could feel the excitement rising inside me. Roses and thick ivy snaked intricately up the rough stone walls of the nearest turret, making my mind wander to tales of dragons and gallant knights. Through the green curtain peeped thin windows that spoke of archers and rains of arrows pouring down on the enemy as they approached. As we drew closer and the ground levelled off, the edge of the moat came into view. I glanced into the narrow ditch, and was disappointed to see that like so many of the old castles these days, it instead of being filled with water was filled with brambles and beer cans. I could see from there the way that the great hall opened up to the mighty rain clouds high above, and hazily wondered what it must have been like for the lords and knights of middle-age Germany that lived here so long ago, before the roof fell in, before the moat drained empty, before the windows were fitted with bars of ugly steel that prevented you from leaning out of them and feeling the chill wind on your face._

_My history teacher had given up the pretence of trying to make the class do anything even close to educational. The trip was nearly over, he said, and we could have free time to look around the castle and the rose garden at our own pace. He didn't even bother insisting that we go around in groups of three, seeing as there were so few of us, so as most of my friends were busy crooning over cows at the animal park below, I took the opportunity to go off on my own and wallow in the beauty of the landscape._

_It had only been half an hour before they found me. To this day, I don't know exactly what they were doing, but I have a pretty good idea that it wasn't anything nice. I only knew fragments of German from the snatches gleaned off of my brother, who studied it for GCSE, and none of the usual phrases like 'Hello', 'What's your name?', or 'What's your favourite colour?' came up. They were tall. All of them. Middle aged with sallow faces and yellowed teeth. Not that I got a good look at them. I was sitting there on the wall, looking down at a lake I could glimpse through the trees and daydreaming ancient times and fairytale heroes, when the three of them appeared on the path. I didn't have a clue that they even were heading for me until they were standing around me. One in front. One on my left. Another on my right. The wall behind me._

_The one on the right said something I didn't understand. My nervousness and lack of knowledge of his language meant I hadn't a clue what he said, so I shrugged and looked confused, hoping he would get the message that I didn't understand and simply move on. They didn't. I was really beginning to get apprehensive, so I shrugged a little more, stood up and tried to walk past them. They didn't let me. One of them spoke again, but I couldn't understand. I shook my head, tried a few feeble phrases in German to let them know that I couldn't help them, and tried again to walk away. The one on my left put his arm out and refused to let me pass by him. I tried the one on the right. He grabbed my shoulder and pushed me against the wall. I cried out for help. None came. The men moved closer and one of them produced cable ties from his jeans pocket. I Started to scream, but there was no answer. I was gagged and tied up. No matter how much I struggled, I could not overpower them. I was a weak teenage girl. They were three fully grown men. I was powerless._

_It all happened so fast. One second I was sitting on the wall with three German men surrounding me, the next I was on a frosty lakeside hidden from sight by a thin barrier of trees that might as well have spanned a thousand miles. I was struggling, but every second I was brought closer and closer to the icy water. I didn't know how deep it was. I didn't know how well I would be able to keep afloat wearing the bulky clothes I had on and with my hands tied like that. I did know that no one would be there to hear my screams._

_And then he came._

_He moved so fast I almost missed him. All of a sudden the hands forcing me towards the lake let go of me, and I bashed my head quite severely on the frozen ground. By the time I had recovered enough to look up at what was going on, the first man was already sprawled on the ground next to me._

_And there was the boy._

_He moved with the grace of a lynx, and the deadly precision of a striking snake. Although he was not much taller than I was, and certainly skinnier, his agility was remarkable. Every brute blow thrown at him from his opponents was dodged with ease. He danced forever out of reach, darting in to strike with surprising strength from one so small and moving back again, smiling a chill smile that set me spine tingling, obviously amused at the frustration he was causing. His hands were curled into fists that seemed more like daggers than parts of his arm, slicing through the air and sending his assailants sprawling back, cursing angrily in German._

_The boy uttered no curses. He was confidently silent, his black eyes staring at the attackers with a threatening dead eye stare that somehow kept my gaze trained on him, watching with baited breath. I drank in every move. I watched the way his feet moved unbelievably fast, the way he kept his fists in the same ready position between strikes, the way that he took in the situation with that relaxed, almost lazy gaze. I remember thinking how utterly at home he looked. How utterly safe._

_It didn't last long. In what to me seemed like seconds the boy dealt a blow to the side of one of the men's heads with the butt of his knuckles, causing him to collapse and drop to the floor, sprawling besides his companion. The next man let out a roar of annoyance and launched himself straight at the boy. For a moment I thought he was going to flatten him, but the boy jumped out of the way at the last second, and his attacker fell, dazed to the floor. One kick to the skull and he was unconscious, too._

_For a second, my saviour surveyed the scene, then as if for the first time noticed me, lying there on the silver grass, with wide eyes and jagged breathing. He didn't hesitate. In a heartbeat he was over at my side with a pocket knife in his hands, cutting the ties at my writs and ankles. As he worked, he spoke, and although I couldn't understand the question from the words, I understood it from his tone. In answer, I made a reassuring sort of noise that was meant to be a 'Yes', but didn't form and coherent word that I was aware of. He didn't once look me in the face._

_As soon as my hands were freed, I removed my gag from my mouth and welcomed the hand that was offered to me to pull me back on my feet, but by the time I had my breath back and was in any state to begin thanking the boy for saving me, he was already walking away through the trees._

_"Wait!" I called, "Who are you?" I didn't know if he would understand. I didn't even know if he would be inclined to answer. But he did._

_He turned and smiled at me. Not the cold, taunting smile he used when he was fighting. A sad smile. Full of memory. Somehow old beyond his years._

_"Niemand." he said, and melted into the trees._

_I didn't tell anyone what had happened. I couldn't find the words. A few people asked me if I was okay on the coach trip back to Hannover, and I made up some excuse that I was tired and missing home. But in truth, I was thinking about him. The boy who saved me._

_I looked up the word 'Niemand' as soon as I got home._

_It meant 'Nobody'._

* * *

I stride over to the doors and barge through them, grabbing the figure by the collar and dragging him out into the alleyway. With all the strength I can muster (which let's face it, isn't a lot) I pin him against the wall, just like they do in the movies, and try to act intimidating.

"What the hell are you doing here?" The boy can't be more than seventeen, yet small and scrawny looking with long dark hair that flops in his eyes. His face is thin and sallow, like he never gets enough sleep or something. Nevertheless, I'm sure that it's him. The guy who saved my life.

He recognises me instantly.

"Hey! Aren't you-"

I ignore him.

"What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were German!"

"I am! Well, I was born in Germany, but was raised in England since I was about three months old, so I consider myself English, I guess."

"I'm not here to talk nationality. I'm here because I want answers."

"You can't have them."

"I'm entitled to them!" The boy lifts a hand to his forehead and brushes the hair out of his eyes.

"Do us both a favour and back off. You're just embarrassing yourself. Trying to keep a guy still like that would only end in tears for you if I meant you any harm."

Feeling foolish, I step back, and slump onto the top of the half wall.

"What are you doing here?" I ask for the third time, feeling rather self-concious and very aware of how untidy my hair looks and the fact that I'm wearing a black knitted poncho.

"Just passing through."

"I don't believe you."

"You should do. It's the truth."

"Who are you?"

"I told you. I'm-"

"Yeah, yeah, you're nobody. Well I have news for you kid- nobody isn't good enough. What were you doing by the lake?"

"Walking."

"I get that. Why were you walking?"

"I needed to clear my head. Being outdoors helps. And the castle. Old places calm me down. The older the better."

I kind of get where he's coming from. I know the feeling that medieval castles can give you.

"Who were those guys?"

He rolls his eyes at me.

"You sure have a lot of questions, don't you?"

"What do you expect? I'm just there, minding my own business when three random guys come up to me and-"

"Okay, okay, I get the picture. I don't know who the guys were. There are hundreds of criminal gangs all over Europe- it could have been any one of them. As to why? Any number of reasons. For kicks, most likely."

I don't press the subject. I don't want to even think about what would have happened to me if he hadn't burst in like that and saved me.

"Where the hell did you learn to fight like that? You couldn't have been more than what... Fifteen?"

"Eleven."

"Jeez, you look older man."

"So I've been told. How old were you? Sixteen?"

"Fourteen. I'm sixteen now. At least you're not the only one who looks older. What are you doing here?"

The guy winces like it hurts.

"Passing through." He mutters. "I truly had no idea you'd be here."

"Don't believe you."

"You should do- it's the truth."

I think for a minute.

"You haven't answered my question. Where did you learn to fight like that?"

"Close combat? Let's see... I didn't learn that until I was much older... I think it was..." He winces again. "I think she taught me that particular trick..." He looks up from his feet. "Let's just say I trained with the best."

"Meaning?"

"I could kill you in a thousand different ways without even being armed."

I shiver. Something his low, empty tone makes me believe him. This boy is dangerous. I can see why the youth workers in the area pegged him as 'having issues'.

"Why did you save my life?" The words escape my lips before I can even process what I'm saying. It feels strange, like up until this moment I hadn't even realised I wanted to know, but now that I've said it, it feels like a weight off of my shoulders.

The guy shrugs.

"Instinct, I guess. I see a teenage girl with her hands and feet tied surrounded by four grown men on a jetty at the edge of a really, really deep lake and something snaps, you know."

"I'd have just called the cops."

The boy's thin mouth twists into a wry smile. I remember the smile. He smiled like that straight after he knocked those guys out cold.

"I was actually trying to avoid the police at that point-"

"Minie!" The shout takes me straight out of my trip down memory lane and back to the real world. I turn to see Courts running up the steps from the main road, arms wide and overly large sunglasses askew. As she reaches me I open my arms and give my best friend a hug. I always feel really tall hugging Courts, really tall and really fat- she's so small and dainty. Like an elf. I'm more of a troll type build. After a moment of swaying on the spot, we lean back and smash our heads together in an old ritual taken from watching too many behind the scenes of Lord of the Rings. By God, we're sad.

Courts and I release each other and I turn back to the boy, who's looking awkwardly at his feet, like he's not sure what to make of us.

"Who's this?" Courts asks politely, although looking the guy up and subtly grimacing at his worn, muddy jeans that are way too big for him, and the scarlet football strip bearing the gunners' logo. "Tell me you don't really support Arsenal?" She means it as a dig at me, but the boy, who doesn't know my Dad is obsessed with the team, just looks even more nervous, and mumbles something inaudible.

"Sorry?" I ask gently, putting a hand carefully on his shoulder.

He shies away.

" 'S the only shirt I have."

"Oh," Courts looks aghast at her obvious lack of tact. "Jesus, I'm so sorry."

" 'S okay." He mutters. " 'Scuse me." And he scurries back inside.

I glance at Courts' face, which is hurriedly turning the same colour as the boy's football strip. She tries to laugh it off.

"Well, I feel so sorry for the poor guy! He has to go round wearing a shit football team on his shirt!"

I slap her on the arm and scowl at her, making her yelp in protest, and slink in through the doors after the boy, an odd knotty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I can't believe that the boy is only passing through. Something is going on here. I can feel it.

After spending outrageous amounts of money on tuck and discussing with Anthea in great detail the high and low points of the council meeting we attended on Friday evening, Courts and I grab the speakers out of the youth club cupboard and rig them up to Courts' phone in the back room- a kind of soft furnished den that people can go to if they aren't willing to partake in the sports and general chaos of the main hall. Most people are used to the screeching heavy metal and loud, thumping rhythms by now, and don't bat an eyelid as Courts, Annie, Steph, Courts' little sister Jess, (who arrived a few minutes after Courts did) and I all sit down to a game of pictionary (in Annie, Courts and Jess' case) or just some quiet doodling (in the case of Steph and I).

I distance myself a little from the rest of the group, and pull out some graphite sticks and a black and white photograph of Sam Winchester from Supernatural. I learnt the hard way that if I try to draw with felt-tips, particularly when I draw with felt-tips from memory, I epic fail in a totally epically failed sort of way, so have taken to bringing my own materials and photographs along with me to fury, so as not to demonstrate my failure at art when I don't have something to copy. I'd be hopeless as a concept artist, however awesome a job that may be (What wouldn't I give to go and work at Weta Workshop?).

The picture is an old one, from season six or seven, I think, but the hard look on Jared Padalecki's face struck me as highly attractive at the time I printed it out, and at any rate, it was the first image I pulled out of the pocket at the back of my sketchbook.

With an HB, I roughly begin the outline, sketching out a vague oval which is quickly worked away to form Sam's thin, lean face. After creating the basic facial structure, I set out to draw his long, sweeping dark hair hanging loose over his face, and sketch in holes where his eyes, nose and mouth will eventually go. The 2B creates the shape of the eyes, which go from sketchy ovals to dark, hollow pits of knowledge that have seen, done, and lost far too much. The eyebrows are next, low over the eyes in a pained frown. At this point, the skin tone and shadows start to take form, which quickly leads to the shaping of the nose and mouth. The shadows deepen when I put away the 2B and reach for the 4B, and the mere suggestion of stubble begins to appear on the still fairly young and boyish face. After I am satisfied with the shading, I grab a 6B and start with the hair. Sam's long and beautiful hair has always been a challenge to me, but somehow this time, I get it right. The long swishy hair that gives him the nickname my brother knows him by ("Swishy hair guy") flows easily from the end of my pencil, and in almost no time at all I am a hundred percent happy with my sketch, and I haven't even been at it for twenty minutes. To finish, I write the word 'Moose' in swirly letters next to the base of Sam's neck where the sketch fades out, and tuck my graphite stick and putty rubber back into my bag where they belong.

I am contemplating whether or not I should join in the pictionary, when the boy walks in, and tentatively walks over to sit beside me, trying not to draw attention to himself. I smile as warmly as I can, trying not to make my expression look forced or false.

"Who's is the music?" He asks in an undertone.

"Courts." I say. "Don't worry, you don't have to pretend to like it."

He smiles.

"That's okay then. I was beginning to think I was the only one who protests to people screaming in an attempt to conceal the fact they cannot sing."

I smirk, making a mental note to keep that description in mind for later use. I don't actually mind heavy metal that much, but Courts' passionate love for it makes me naturally inclined to find as much wrong with it as possible, if only to irritate her.

"Nah, you're not the only one. We're just used to it." I roll my eyes. "I suppose I can't really talk- her music goes down better than mine would."

"What kind of music do you listen to?"

"Soundtrack." I shuffle my feet and try very hard not to look too embarrassed.

"Me too. Howard Shore and Hans Zimmer are by far the best composers of all time."

I turn to look at him. "You're kidding right! You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"No," he frowns, "What makes you say that?" Wordlessly, I reach for my iPod and pump in my pass-code (which is accompanied by a picture of Gandalf doing the 'You Shall not Pass'), immediately tapping the orange music icon and selecting Soundtrack under Genres. The top three names on the list read 'Hans Zimmer', 'Howard Shore,' and 'Klaus Badelt'. I shove the device towards him.

The boy smiles, and passes the iPod back to me.

"You have good taste." He grins. "And I liked your screen lock by the way. Us nerds must stick together." I laugh, and we share the highest of high fives. It flashes across my mind how weird the situation is, but I push the thought away when he opens his mouth again to ask me a question.

"I noticed you were drawing Sam Winchester earlier. Can I have a look?"

"Sure." Reluctantly, I grab my sketchbook and find the correct page, before handing it to the boy. I always get butterflies in my stomach when people are looking at my artwork. I guess it's just an artist's thing. The boy takes a good long look at my Moose, them flicks casually back through the spiral bound book.

Several pages of Dean come before Sam, then some Jon Snow and Daenerys Taragaryen. Aragorn and Castiel come next, then some of Legolas and The Tenth Doctor. Sherlock appears a few times, and even some of Katniss Everdeen. On the last page, a collection of sketches based on Thorin peer up out of the paper. I wince as I remember just how crude some of the older ones look. Was I really that bad only a few years ago?

The boy spends a long time on the one of Throin, then turns back a few pages where Viggo Mortensen as Aragorn sits on the throne of Gondor, wearing the armour of Isildur and the Crown of Elendil. The picture is captioned in Tengwar script, and reads 'King Elessar', although I've never met anyone other than me sad enough to have learnt the elvish alphabet by heart.

Apprehensively, I look at the guy's face, searching for approval, and dreading the lack of it. I am surprised to see a single tear falling down his cheek.

"You okay mate?"

"What?" He looks up, startled, "Yeah, I'm- These are great by the way. Really good. I wish I could draw half as well as you." I smile, relived.

"Courts is better. Way better. Her stuff goes for quite a lot of money. It's embarrassing actually, we sit together in art."

"Well, I've rarely seen better."

"You can't have seen a lot then." He smiles, and the tear I imagined on his face seems long gone.

"I'm Lucas, by the way. Pleased to finally meet you properly." I smile back.

"Jasmine. I'm pleased to meet you too."

* * *

The next day goes slower than I could ever have imagined.

I crawl through the football game I have first (deep joy!) with my usual frustration and fatigue. It's another one of those five-a-side matches where all the girls in your team refuse to play because they're too cold, or too emotionally unstable, or too scared of breaking a nail to play, and so I end up playing five against one and loosing spectacularly fifteen:nil.

Physics, as usual, makes my head explode. I can't remember anything about the formation of galaxies millions of light years away, or about Einstein's theories on stuff of no actual relevance. At the end, Sir keeps me back and yells at me for not paying attention like I normally do. He has the cheek to ask me if there's anything going on at home that might 'effect my ability to learn'. When I reply that the only thing effecting my learning is his bad teaching, he almost skins me alive and yells at me to get out. I leave sullenly, certain he's going to set me a detention.

I'm in a bad mood for R.E., and when Leah spends the whole lesson slagging of Christians and saying we're a whole bunch of raving idiots, I stand up and yell at her for being a brain dead slut, them storm out of the classroom before Miss starts crying. She's another one of those teachers who teaches utter rubbish. This is the third time in a month that I've spent an R.E. lesson being made to feel uncomfortable due to my religion, and I can't take it anymore. I've tried reporting it, but I just get the usual bull from the teachers about how everyone is entitled to an opinion, and if Leah feels that way she has the right to express herself. Basically the teachers are too busy fussing about meeting Ofsted criteria to care that some of their students are being ganged up on in class and made to feel bad about themselves because of what they believe.

None of this helps me prepare my story for English on why I haven't done my essay, so when I turn up to the lesson empty handed, Miss isn't in the best of moods with me. She's even more unimpressed by the fact a member of STT (Supportive team of teachers- the annoying blockheads who pretend that they help the head to run the school) comes to collect me half way through the lesson, asking about the way I acted in R.E. and Physics. I break down into a sobbing fit, which doesn't get me out of a hour and a half long detention, but does get me a load of jeering when I eventually re-enter the classroom. I'm on library duty at lunch, so can't even talk to my mates about what happened. Courts will hear it from Denna and Sam, the only two of my friends who are in my classes, so will probably be bugging me all tonight about what happened. I skip registration, for no other reason than the fact that my tutor is an imbecile. I'm making it sound like all the teachers in the school are idiot, and while this might not be the case, most of them are, him included.

Of course, I forget that I have him next lesson for Maths. He isn't best pleased with me either, and so gives us even more homework than usual, before telling everyone exactly how I got set another detention for skipping registration, which is a legal requirement for all students due to the fact that there is a tiny possibility that on the off-chance someone in the kitchens burns some toast, the teachers might get into trouble for not having ticks in the right places on the fire drill sheet. He isn't impressed by my sobbing fit either.

All in all, it is one of the worst days of my entire life. Walking home in the chucking rain gives me plenty of time to prepare a story for my Mum about what happened, but each story seems less and less convincing. It is, as I tell myself when I ferociously take my anger out on a pubic recycling bin on the roadside by ASDA (earning myself some strange looks from a pack of young Mums having what looks like a nappy changing cult meeting by the sliding plastic doors), utterly unlike the person I was as a child. Growing up I was an utter angel. I was a complete and utter snob, but I always tried hard at school and did Mummy and Daddy proud. Even in the lower years of secondary school, I was pretty damn compliant. Recently though, I've just found it harder and harder to follow instructions. I can't cope with following stupid rules for stupid reasons for stupid people. I feel confined. I feel restricted. I want to be get rid of the restrains that hold me firmly in place, even if they are disguised as something trivial like how I spend my Saturday afternoons, or how I wear my school uniform. I want to be my own person: I want to be free.

When I eventually get in, to my dismay I find no chocolate, no cheese and no garlic olives. Mum must have finished them off. Even the blackcurrant squash has run out, and cheap lemonade isn't nearly as nice on its own.

When Mum and Dad get in, they yell at me too. The sobbing for does work on them, but leads to some patronising next few minutes and some smug looks from Harvey. We eventually come to an agreement that we won't ever mention it again, so long as it never happens, although I make no promises, and storm upstairs to cry peacefully. I wish I could be rid it. I just want space, and peace. Everyday seems to be so busy, so full of people to talk to and things I have to do before my GCSE exams kick in in the summer. There's too much pressure coming in from all sides: from my neurotic teachers, from the people in my classes who are under the delusion that because I work hard I can do anything and therefore have to do everything (perfectly), from my older brother's exemplary behaviour and straight A stars... I can't cope.

* * *

I don't know how long I lie there, curled up in a ball under the duvet, hot water bottle held close to my chest, but the sky outside grows darker and darker by the minute. Not that dark, still quite light, but still noticeably evening, rather than afternoon.

Winter is coming. Ha. Stupid fandoms.

'Open your eyes, Eledwen.' I sit bolt upright, looking around for the source of the noise. No one. Why would there be?

"Did someone just say something?"

"No!" Comes Harvey's bored voice from downstairs.

"Just wandering."

'Rise, my child.' The voice comes again, louder this time. No, closer. There's a difference.

"You sure no one said anything? Is that coming from Skyrim, Harvey?"

"Is what coming from Skyrim?"

"Nothing..." I look around again. I'm sure I heard a voice... And I gasp as a pale light suddenly appears. A radiant glowing orb of silver light filling my room and making my eyes water at the brightness. I try to cry out, but no sound comes.

The light draws closer towards me, filling me with panicky uncertainty. Should I run? Jump? Call for help? Stay where I am? I try to take a shaky step backwards, but find my legs won't move. I try to scream, but noiseless nothing pours out of my open mouth.

The light touches my skin.

And suddenly, the world turns black.

* * *

AN: *Gives a shaky breath and tries a worn smile*.

Umm... Hi?

I'd like to say first of all that this is my first ever fanfic, and while a there are a few people in the world who have read it and sort of given me feedback(ish), I still have no idea how well this is going to go down. So please review- let me know what you think, be as honest as you need to be, but _please_ be nice at the same time. (Danke sch_ö_n :D Das ist Deutsch fur 'Thank you very much'. Sorry. I speak German a lot. Not sure why.)

Secondly I'd like to apologise that this chapter is **obscenely** long. I probably should spilt it into two chapters, but I don't want to do that. It's probably not clear at this stage, but this is (believe it or not) a Lord of the Rings fanfic, and I want to spend minimal time in the real world as possible, because Middle-Earth is so much cooler. I'm sure you'll agree. ;) I promise this is the only chapter set in the real world for about eighty years fanfic time, but unfortunately it is necessary for later plot, so forget it for now, but don't forget it, if you get my meaning. (Yes, this probably going to turn out to be an epic fic. I thought I'd do something special for my first time writing anything proper. Sorry.)

What else...? Uhhh...?

Oh yeah! A rather annoying habit of mine is a refusal to write in chronological order. I do write quite a lot, but not always on the same thing, or the same part of the story. I have loads of stuff saved on my laptop, but only four or five chapters of it are actually set at the beginning. The rest is sort of irrelevant at the moment, but alas, it is more interesting to write than the opening chapters. (I hate beginnings.) So my updates will be both random and spaced out. I will try and get better at forcing myself to write the stuff that's relevant if I get enough interest.

So yeah. This is me trying to explain myself and the mindset behind my scribblings. I appear to be failing miserably. ;(

Please Review?!

AnironEndor xxx :)

* * *

Disclaimer: (I feel like I should probably put one here... It's not really relevant for chapter one, but here goes.)

I do not own Middle-Earth. The majority of characters are owned by either New Line or The Tolkien Estate, and if I'm 100% honest, the majority of the plot it too. I do not write for my own profit, but only because I have a talent for procrastination and might as well do something constructive with my time whilst trying to put off those really boring things that regrettably are essential for everyday life.

There are also, due to my extraordinarily nerdy nature, a wealth of Fandom references buried in my writing. I don't own them either. As much as I would love to claim that Sam Winchester is mine, he isn't. And neither is Jon Snow. Or anyone else. Just because their names come up in my fanfiction doesn't mean I own them. Wish it did...

Let's make this simple by saying the only character I own is 'The Eledwen' (Or Jaz or Mel or Lio or whatever other name you want to find for her.). Anyone else is either owned by someone else or you are free to use for your own profit or pleasure or whatever. Not that you'd want to.

(Was that okay? Do I need to say anything else? I only have 20p in all the world anyway (YOU THINK I'M JOKING BUT I'M NOT.) so if you try to take me to court you won't get much...)


	2. Reborn

_Uialond_

_A villiage on the slopes of the Emyn Uial in Northen Arnor_

_1st March TA2931_

~.o0o.~

A thin spring wind drifts through the numerous gaps in the think wicker door and gently ruffles the long golden hair of the young woman who sits cross legged upon the low dank cot crammed into the corner of the room. She looks worn, tired, and filthy as though the only thing she wants to do is curl up and sleep, but she does nothing of the sort. A thin layer of sweat, blood, and grime covers her thin face, but does little to hide her evident beauty. Her brows and cheeks are high boned and noble, like that of a queen's, and her emerald eyes are so fine and piercing that it is hard to look away from them. Her regal appearance flashes into stark contrast with the humble conditions in which she resides and the poor cloth used to make the handmade robe that is cast around her shoulders, yet none could deny her beauty. Especially not now. A smile so deep and full of love that is would break your heart to see it end covers her face, and her eyes are set on the tiny children held between her arms and upon her lap. There are two of them- tiny, newborn babes still wrinkled and pink skinned from the birth, and yet they sit silently on their mother's lap, staring up at her with wide, curious eyes. One pair grey. The other green. Green like her mother's.

The speech of another breaks the odd serenity of the scene.

"Have you thought of names, iell nín?"

An old woman wearing clean white robes steps forwards to put a gentle hand on the shoulder of her daughter. The girl smiles as the wizened old hand touches her arm, but does not take her eyes off of her own children. She watches as the boy's eyes flicker shut and his tiny lips open in sleep. She gently squeezes the girl as she wriggles incessantly in her tight bindings- eager, it seems, to be off outside under the wide sky and begin her life's adventure aged only two hours old.

"I admit I have not," the woman sighs, "Everything has happened so fast it would seem. I certainly did not anticipate ever giving birth to twins."

Her midwife, a younger, dark haired woman, smiles a wry smile. Although her face shows only a sliver of her lady's exhaustion, it shows not a fragment of her joy. Her heart is light though. The twins she just delivered are no ordinary children.

"We can hardly hold you accountable for nor expecting that, m'lady. There's never been such a thing before. Least, not since the Lord Elrond and his brother were born. That was the last time any in your bloodline birthed twins. And it's been a long time since I heard of any of us Dúnedain had more than one child, either. Our kind is failing, m'lady. All the folks are saying so. They say the blood in our veins is cursed."  
The old woman frowns, her narrow hazel eyes flashing dangerously.

"We are well aware of what the common folk say, Amhanona. We do not need your input."

Amhanona lowers her head respectfully.

"I am sorry, ma'am."

The mother appears not to have heard the exchange.

"Never?" She asks hazily, finally dragging her eyes away from her children to throw a sharp look at the midwife. "Surely the Lords Elladan and Elrohir, and their sister the Lady Arwen are living proof that those with more than one bloodline can have more than one child? The rumours of the common folk are unfounded! True, such a thing is rare, but not impossible?"

"No, m'lady. The Lord Elrond made his choice. Elladan and Elrohir are entirely elven. Anyhow, that was aeons ago. I heard that a shadow is growing over Middle-Earth again, draining the power of the elves and causing the life of us Dúnedain to wane. I haven't heard of any a child of our people being blessed with a true-born brother or sister for many a long year, now."

The mother nods absent mindedly and turns back to her children, but at that very moment, a clammer of shouting and steel comes from outside. In any other town, this may be seen as an Orc attack or worse, but here, people only smile. The bells would have rung, the lookouts would have called. The noise means that the rangers are returned.

In the past few days, there has been a gradual panic rising among the people in the village. Rumours and whisperings begun to spread well over a month back about the savage packs of Goblin men creeping back out of the Misty Mountains to trouble the lands of Eriador once more. More Orcs have been seen in the open in the past decade than the last hundred years. There is talk of a Shadow growing, a darkness reaching out once again to cloak the world in suffering, and the townspeople of the North are finally beginning to grasp at what the Dúnedain rangers have known for a while now: evil is waking up. This particular pack of Orcs had been terrorising towns for weeks, now, and everyone knew it. The enemy was growing bolder, stronger, harder to face off.

And so the Chieftain of the Dúnedain lead the village folk, along with a handful of his own people, out into the forest surrounding the town in which he had taken temporary residence during his wife's pregnancy as soon as it became evident that the rumours of an alpha pack roaming the hills of Emyn Uial were, in fact, not actually rumours. He left his wife with his usual warm smile and mischievous glint in his storm-grey eyes, declaring that he would be away from her only for seven days, and would return before she would be able to notice he was gone.

That was two weeks ago. But Gilraen was not worried. Ever since she was a girl, she has always been able to predict with alarming accuracy whether or not the rangers will return, and whether their hunt would be successful or not. She always knew her husband would return to her.

And now he has. A tall, lean man with a pale handsome face splattered with mud, blood, and an expression of utter joy clatters through the door. As he passes, the old woman and the midwife lower their heads and curtsey respectfully, but his lady wife smiles warmly and reaches up to kiss him.

"I should have come sooner, hervess nín " The Lord Arathorn berates himself, "I should have stayed at your side and let the hunt leave without me."

"You did not know my time was near, mellth nín." Gliraen laughs gently, a sound to melt even the hardest of hearts, "And besides, I'm sure your men needed you at their sides far more than I did."

Arathorn smiles a wan smile, and kisses the filthy brow of his beautiful wife with an obvious tenderness that you would not expect from such a proud faced and travel worn man.

"I should have been here. I _wanted_ to be here. I wanted to see my son and heir come into the world."

"Son and heir?" The old woman flashes her son-in-law a rare smile. " Hîr nín , you have a daughter, too."

"I have a daughter, too? Ivorwen, what is it that you mean?"

It is only then that Arathorn appears to notice that there are two babes held in the arms of his wife. He blinks and staggers back a moment, the shock evident on his face.

"Twins?" The Lord murmurs, his voice hoarse, as if not sure what to say.

Gilraen smiles, and sets her son down on her knee so that she may take her husband's pale hand.

"But how can this be? You know as well as I what folk are saying, that women born of the Dúnedain have been robbed of the chance to bear more than one child by the darkness that festers in the heart of this Middle-Earth once again. I believed them to be true..."

"I think they are, melleth nín," Gilraen says softly, "But there is something special about our children. I... I can feel it..."  
She tails off uncertainly, and glances at her mother for assistance.

Ivorwen understands.

"Indeed, there is, my daughter. I feel it too. I can see them. They shall be known throughout Middle-Earth and even lands beyond as mighty heroes of a dark time. I see them at the head of a nation reborn from ashes and rubble. Your children shall be great, iell nín. Greater than you could possibly imagine."

There is silence inside the small wicker house. The men outside have moved off to greet their own wives and children, and the tiny village is almost filled an absence of sound.

Arathorn sits down on the bed beside his wife, and gently places a strong arm around her slim, cold shoulders.

"Can I see them?" He whispers to Gilraen, in a tone so soft and heavy with emotion that hearing it you would be unable to believe that this man was the chieftain of a noble bloodline of forsaken warriors.

Wordlessly, Gilraen kisses his jaw, and carefully lifts her son out of the crook of her cross legged knees and into the arms of her husband. She brings her daughter closer to her chest and leans over so that Arathorn can see her tiny pink face and look into her startling green eyes, so clearly full of understanding and age, age beyond the mere hours of life she has endured.

Arathorn lifts a finger to touch his son's brow and looking at him, you would be shocked to see tears welling up in his stony eyes.

"He looks like you," his wife whispers, smiling contentedly, caught entirely up in the wonderful moment and seemingly oblivious to the other two women standing in the room with her.

Arathorn takes a while to answer, but when he finally does, he only replies with,

"And she looks like you, my love."

There is a perfect stillness for a while, before Arathorn recomposes himself, and blinks the salt from his eyes.

"Do they have names?"  
"Not yet, hervenn nín"

Arathorn sits in thought. After a moment a moment of silence, Gilraen whispers

"What of Aragonui? It is the name your namesake gave to his son before you, and 'Commanding King' is not a name ill fitted to one with a destiny as great as his."  
Arathorn begins to say something, but his mother-in-law finds her voice split seconds before he does, silencing him.

"No, my daughter. Aragonui is not the name your son shall bear. Command he shall have, but more important to the world shall be his fortitude and fearless heart. Call him not a king who rules, but a king who is brave. Yet the name you choose for him now shall not be his true name. Valour may be of upmost importance, and that he shall have, but I see on his breast a green stone, and from that his true name shall come and his chief renown: for he shall be a healer and a renewer. For this he shall be called the Elessar, and the Envinyatar, and so he shall be known to his people as a leader who carries not only power in his hands to lead into battle, but to protect and preserve, such as Kings of Men have not done since the elder days."

Arathorn bows his head to the old woman, and looks thoughtfully down at his son.

"You are wise, brennil nín, and I think that what you say is the truth. You and Gilraen are right. There is something extraordinary about these twins born of my body, and I do not need foresight to sense this. Darkness is coming- that much is clear, and in this time of evil there are two things the forces of goodness will need to survive, and these things are a great hope, and new trusts forged between nations. I believe what you say Ivorwen. My son shall be the one of our bloodline that rises above me and my fathers before me and renews glory to our house. I shall be proud to name him Kingly Valour."  
Gilraen frowns.

"Aragorn? It is not ill fitting."

The tiny child in Arathorn's arms gives a tiny, soundless yawn and wakes up, blinking his dark eyes furiously and wriggling his little hands impatiently. The grave seriousness of the moment is lifted, and the proud parents both find themselves laughing at the innocent and foolish antics of their newborn son. For a moment, all duty is left behind them, and once more they are merely young lovers blessed with the gift of parenthood, not the last hopes of a desperate nation calling out for someone to place the trust of their lives into.

"Welcome to the world, Aragorn son of Arathorn," Ivorwen says, unable to keep the happiness out of her voice for a moment longer, "May your reign come soon, and may it be long and prosperous, and may it be blessed."

Amhanona, the midwife, up until this point had been sitting quietly in the corner, not entirely sure what to make of all of the high talk about destiny and foresight, but now she gives a little cough and reintroduces herself to the room.

Arathorn, who despite his grave nature treats his subjects with unflinching kindness, smiles at her, and bids her speak what is on her mind.

"Your daughter, my lord. I know it's not my place, but she needs a name equally noble and fitting for a great destiny. There are no such names for women."

Gilraen turns to face the woman, her face lost in the realms of history and law that she loves so much.

"There were the ruling queens of Númenor. Tar-Ancalimë, Tar-Telperiën, and Tar-Vanimeldë were their names. But that was a long time ago, and I fear that the power that should have been theirs was taken from them by others that surrounded them. I disliked thier tales. They were sad stories. Indeed, as are most tales of Middle-Earth. Even the stories of Nienor, Nimrodel, and Lúthien, the great elf maids of a past age have no happy endings or triumphant finish. If my son is to be victorious, then should not my daughter be too?"  
Arathorn glances at Ivorwen, and they share a knowing glance, resulting in a knowing grin on both of their faces. It is well known among to them the extent of Gilraen's passion for knowledge and thirst for history. It is a cause of great amusement to the pair of them, the way that she can sometime lose herself in recounting some great event from a long ago age, or in the depths of an ancient volume filled with cracking pages and seemingly impossible to read runes.

"That may be, my love," murmurs Arathorn, absent mindedly stroking her hair and still sharing a smile with Ivorwen, "But if this is the case, choose for her a new name. It may not be after the customs of our people, but this way you can fill her life with as much joy and mirth as you desire for her. Indeed, if you so desired you could give her the name 'Gelleth' and have done with it all."

Gilraen turns to nudge him playfully away, but as she looks down, something in her daughter's face makes her stop. The two sets of identical green eyes stare up at each other, and something in the mind of Gilraen clicks into place.

"You are not the only one gifted with foresight, naneth nín. I can see my children too. My son may be a great king, but my daughter shall be just as mighty, in her own way. I see her at the head of a great army. In her hand is a sword made of fire, and at her neck a jewel made of the bluest starlight. She shall be great, greater than even I can see, and even though she has been born to me, a mere mortal, just as my son's true name is Elessar, my daughter's is Eledwen. But I cannot name her Gelleth, because her life will not be filled with the happiness I would wish for her. There is loss, terrible loss and pain destined for her where there should be love and joy. But she shall be victorious, just as her brother will be. Their fates are bound together, as they have been from the start. They shared my womb, and they shall share all else that belongs to them in this world. She shall be his companion, through light times and through dark, and so I shall give her the name 'Meldiriel', the second child that I did not expect, but shall rejoice in."

Arathorn blinks, all trace of mirth gone from his face. His handsome features show nothing but respect for the woman he loves.

"You are sure of this?" He asks, not because he doubts her, but because he is intrigued by her words.

"I am certain."  
"I am too," Ivorwen agrees, "But your daughter shall be more than that, Gilraen. Even though there is loss and suffering in her future, your Meldiriel shall one day be the birth of a great nation, the likes of which have never been seen before in this world or any others. She is not from Middle-Earth, my daughter, even though this is her home now. She is a gift from the Valar, and I am certain that their plans for her are far greater than simply restoring the glory to our house, however ancient and noble it may be."

Gilraen nods, but Arathorn appears a little confused, and resolves to leave all serious matters of fate and destiny behind him for now, and merely bathe in the fact that he is, for the first time in his life, a father. These first few hours shall not come again, and he wishes to cherish this time of joy whilst the temporary peace he has fought for remains.

He leans across and strokes his daughter's face with a single grubby finger. She beams at him in the way that only babies can, and his low laugh fills the tiny hut with cheer once more.

"That's as may be, ladies, but for now such dark matters of fate and battle must now be forgotten. We have many years left to us before the days that you have foreseen, Gilraen, and for now, let us be merry. My people must meet their future chieftain. Amhanona, call for the bells to be rung! Spread the word through every street! The house of Elendil has two new heirs, and they shall be the greatest of out line that has ever walked upon this Middle-Earth!"

The maid scurries off, and Ivrowen casts her son a knowing smile before following her out, leaving the young lovers alone with their new-found joy.

For a moment, they remain still, revealing in the wonder of the day's events.

Then Arathorn speaks up.

"I am sorry, my love, that I wasn't here for you. I should never have left your side."

Gilraen laughs, and kisses her husband's cheek with a smile on her face.

"You do not need to keep apologising. You are here now, and that is what matters. You are here, and we are a family."

"Family," Arathorn echoes, "I scarcely know the word. It seems far to big for me to comprehend."

"It is simple," Gilraen murmurs in his ear, "It means that no matter how long we are parted, or how dark our road gets, we will always be there for each other, regardless of how late or how hopeless the hour gets."

The Chieftain of the Dúnedain looks at his wife with what can only be descried as an expression of pure love. He takes his arm from her shoulder, and scoops the child out of her arms so that he clutches both his son and his daughter, both Aragorn and Meldiriel, tight to his chest, and smiles down at them.

"Then I swear to you, my children, I shall always be there for you."

The bells begin to ring outside, and there is a clammer in the streets outside that speaks of people filing out of their houses and into the open air, eager to meet their future leaders for the first time.

The bed gives a soft creak as Gilraen steps lightly off it and heads towards the door. Despite her filthy appearance, she seems eager to be outside among the people who she holds so close to her heart.

"Come on my love. Your children must be introduced to the people who will one day hail them as their Chieftains."

She opens the door with one hand, and stretches out the other to her husband, who as carefully as though the babes in his arms were made of elvish glass, gets to his feet and moves towards the cheering crowd, stopping only to lean down and kiss his wife deeply as he passes her at the door.

* * *

AN: Right! Thanks for reading. I'm sorry that it took much longer than I intended to get this chapter published. Because I thought I had it all written out, I assumed I'd get it out only a few days after chapter one, but alas, I reread it and discovered that it was awful. Really awful. Like, really, really awful... so I basically rewrote it completely and made it three time longer than what I originally had... Sorry about that. I just like long chapters.

Chapter two might seem very different to chapter one. That's because it is. Different setting, different characters (save one, who doesn't talk, for obvious reasons. Ten point to Gryffindor if you can figure out which one is in both chapters. It's not hard, mainly because I'm not working for originality points here...), and different writing style. I can offer no explanation as to why my writing style went kaput in this chapter other than when I write third person, my brain ceases to function. Sorry. I will mainly stick to first, even if I jump POV a lot...

This chapter may seem irrelevant to the first. It isn't. Please bear with. If this whole thing is going to work then I'm going to need to set up some 'ground rules' as I call them in the first few chapters, but hopefully once I get going the story should get a little more consistent...

There's some pretty random stuff about Dúnedain and second children in here that is completely non canon and if I'm honest a tad strange. Let's just say I have some strange headcanons and leave it there. (If you really desperately want to know, message me. But I really doubt you do.)

Please, please,_ please_, and please don't be put off by the not-very-regular updates. I'm sure you'd all rather I updated longer and higher quality chapters than scribble down tat and post it as it is, ruining whatever pretence I have that I am anything like a good writer. I do hope to keep some dignity.

THANK YOU ONCE AGAIN TO SATIPHEEN FOR YOUR GLOWING REVIEW! It was seriously amazing to receive feedback like that on my first ever chapter. Cannot emphasise the point enough that you really made my day/week/if I'm honest entire month. Le hannon, mellon nin*. ;)

As I said, I would love to hear from you. I would love your feedback. Getting an email telling me I was sufficiently good/bad enough at writing to steal a whole ten seconds from someone's life makes me feel happy, and knowing that I have the power to make people type responses certainly adds confidence to my world domination scheme. Ahem.

Consider yourself grovelled at.

Yours (If you are by any chance in hell still reading at this point),

Aniron xxx

*Just so you know, I'm not going to be one of those authors who posts a little elvish dictionary at the bottom of every chapter. I feel it destroys the magic of the language a bit. If it isn't obvious what is being said and you really, really want to know that bad, I'm pretty sure Google should have the answers somewhere... ;)

* * *

Disclaimer:

I do not own Middle-Earth. The majority of characters are owned by either New Line or The Tolkien Estate, and if I'm 100% honest, the majority of the plot it too. I do not write for my own profit, but only because I have a talent for procrastination and might as well do something constructive with my time whilst trying to put off those really boring things that regrettably are essential for everyday life.

There are also, due to my extraordinarily nerdy nature, a wealth of Fandom references buried in my writing. I don't own them either. As much as I would love to claim that Sam Winchester is mine, he isn't. And neither is Jon Snow. Or anyone else. Just because their names come up in my fanfiction doesn't mean I own them. Wish it did...

Let's make this simple by saying the only character I own is 'The Eledwen' (Or Jaz or Mel or Stell or whatever other name you want to find for her.). Anyone else is either owned by someone else or you are free to use for your own profit or pleasure or whatever. Not that you'd want to.

(Was that okay? Do I need to say anything else? I only have 20p in all the world anyway (YOU THINK I'M JOKING BUT I'M NOT.) so if you try to take me to court you won't get much...)

UPDATE: Okay, It's not true anymore to say I have only 20p in the world... Das Großeltern gave me a tenner at the weekend, but I intend on spending that on this £12 replica of Nenya I found on Amazon... So please don't try and take that off of me. I will be very upset.


	3. The Heirs of Elendil

_The southern foothills of The North Downs_

_Six miles north of the ruins of Fornost_

_April TA 2033_

~.o0o.~

A crisp wind rustles the leaves on the trees and wraps itself tightly around the heir of Isildur in the form of an ice-cold blanket, but after many long decades spent in the wilderlands, Arathorn does not even blink to keep the wind sting from his eyes. The perfect circles of deep green mottled with flecks of brown and black do not even twitch from their owner's target, a tall figure seen only as a deeper blackness against the already pitch black sky.

A second figure slinks through the night towards the first, but instead of being merely a deeper blackness, this figure carries a lighted torch. The deep red glow of the flickering flames spits and hisses, casting an eerie light across the faces of the two figures.

Any other might have cried out at the sight of what the light reveals- two grotesque faces, deformed and covered in repulsive growths and rotting warts. Festering scars web the pale grey-green skin; maggots and flies crawl and buzz in and out of the red pools of heat.

But there are none alive today more accustomed to the sight of Orc filth than Arathorn son of Arador, chieftain of the Dúnedain. All his life has been spent in an attempts to push back the servants of evil and rid his people of the black canker that is their threat and brutality.

The first figure speaks, if you can call it speech, a black sound like stone on stone coming from his lips. The second figure responds in a louder voice as though insulted, spitting out each word from the very back of his black throat.

A high whistle that is not far from the song if a night-jar is heard from over the tops of the trees, and although the hear nothing over their own arguing voices, Arathorn is instantly alert. His draw arm is pulled further back to add range to his arrow fletched with gold, and in a second, the goblin holding the torch is lying dead on the floor. The second has joined him before he even noticed his friend was shot.

After a moment's hesitation, Arathorn leaps from the trees and towards his fallen foes, stamping out the flaming torch with the heel of his heavy leather boot. The moment the tinder stops glowing, he drops to the ground and begins to creep slowly forward. To any onlooker, it would appear as though Arathorn had simply vanished; had fallen down some hole or had been whisked away by some magic. Such is the skill of the rangers- if they do not wish to be found, then none alive could find them. And this ranger is one of the best.

Arathorn raises himself to an upright position when he reaches the bottom of the slope he was crawling down. Shielded by the silhouettes of some thick thorn bushes, Arathorn can now take in the whole scene before him. The camp lies in the bottom of a steep valley, dense pine thickets littering both slopes. Countless Orcs stand in huddles, screaming and arguing over some unknown cause in an unknown language. Huge goblin men that stand almost as tall as a man spar and fight with their fists and long curved black scimitars crafted of dark, cold steel. Even more creatures stand to the side, hammering and moulding metal with crude tools. Forged and cooking fires blaze high, causing the whole camp to glow with a strange, ominous red light. Hundreds of low, crudely structured shelters are crammed together tightly into a compact area. It is a good tactical decision, were the camp to be attacked it would not take long for every Orc in the settlement to hear about it and join in the defence.

Arathorn curses a black curse, and looks around warily as though searching for something. When after a minute, nothing happens, he drops to the ground again. Inch by inch, he edges around the edges of the camp, dodging sentinels and staying out of the firelight. Odd shrubs and bushes provide sparse cover, but other than that the ranger relies on his natural skill at moving quickly and quietly at speed. He doesn't stop until he reaches one of the tree circles on the opposite valley side, and after checking that he hasn't been spotted or followed, Arathorn melts into the trees silently as breath.

No sooner has Arathorn stepped beneath the pine boughs than a shadow has sprung on him from above. It knocks him to the ground, and the stars shine on a glint of razor sharp silver pressed to the ranger's neck.

"Peace, mellon nín," Arathorn murmurs, "it is I."

The knife disappears and a second figure dressed all in grey with a low hood that casts darkness over all his face steps from the shadows cast by the dense trees.

"What brings you here, Arathorn? You were supposed to stick to the plan!" The voice is high and ringing, and even a stranger could tell instantly that the speaker is one of the elf-kindred. He has the voice of one who is often merry, yet often serious. It is a voice to make women weep, and great lords red faced from laughing.

The first figure, clad in green and also with a hooded face, gets swiftly to his feet and stretches down a hand to Arathorn, which he takes and uses to pull himself into a standing position. He dusts his hands on his leggings and pockets the concealed arrowhead that was in his hand, before turning to the grey figure on his left, who has now lowered his hood to reveal a slim and pale face set with storm grey eyes and hair as dark as shadow.

"I know the plan as well as you, Elladan. I tried as best as I could. The sentinels fell easy enough, but I heard no second signal."

"Why was that?" The green elf asks, lowering his own hood. To the untrained eye, he appears exactly identical to his companion. He has the same fair face and dark hair, but to those that know him well there are a thousand tiny differences- his nose is longer, his hair curls slightly at the end, and most noticeably, he is almost a whole inch shorter than his twin.

"I know not. At a guess Lathdoriel has failed us: either been caught, or driven back, or slain. I know not which. I reached the camp, but from there received no companionship."

"We must assume then that Lathdoriel and Silmenath are slain. That brings our number down to only seven. It will be a struggle, but we should manage." The green clad elf that sprung on Arathorn speaks for the first time. His tone is deeper, more serious, but still contains the tone of contrasting joy and sorrow that only the elf kind possess.

"No, Elrohir! That is what I came to say! We have misjudged their numbers by hundreds! They have been joined by a whole troop from the other side of the Misty Mountains. Never have I seen such a gathering. There must be thousands of them. A few hundred we could take, maybe, were we at full strength and had a better plan, but against this force, we have no chance at all. We must retreat."

"That is not possible. Father has been preparing this for weeks. These are the last of their kind in the north, Arathorn. You saw Father's face when he heard these foul beats were back to taint our lands. Orcs have plagued our lands for centuries now, growing ever bolder, ever more brutal and violent. I will not have them slaughter harm any more innocents the way that they did our mother." And there is a hint of bitter steel in the elf's voice- an anger and a rage that he carries with him in his soul at all times- a bitter hatred for the beasts that tore apart his family.

"Lord Elrond may not be pleased to hear of our retreat, but he will be less pleased to hear of the death of his two sons." Arathorn spits, frustrated that the twin elves have not yet grasped the depth of the situation.

"You think it that serious?"

"Don't you? If we stay any longer, one or all of us may be slain! We must find the others and flee."

The elves exchange unreadable looks, and Arathorn again sighs in annoyance at the bond the two of them share that he can only guess at. Too many times has he felt like an outsider, like the twins know something that he does not. While this might not be the case, it frustrates him.

Elladan, the taller of the two, looks deep into his brother's face, and a thin smile begins to twitch at the corner of his mouth. His grey eyes gleam with a sudden mirth, oddly out of place with the dark, gloomy surroundings.

"What?" The ranger demands, impatiently tapping his foot on the root of a tree, and drumming his fingers on the pummel of his sword. The weapon is a curious one: the hilt is long and extravagantly carved with ornate lettering that few mortals can read, yet is broad and heavy. It is clear that only the strongest of men could hope to lift it, let alone wield it in battle. However, if you were to draw it from its sheath, you would see that only inches below where the hilt meets the blade, the metal stops, where an age ago some dark sorcery shattered the sword into a thousand pieces. Had it been any other sword, or had it been broken in any other way, then it would have been cast aside as though it were no more than another overused tool ready to be melted down and reused. But this is no ordinary sword, and it was no ordinary foe that broke the metal.

Elladan looks into his brother's eyes, and soon both elves are bent double, shaking in silent laughter.

"Quiet brother!" Elrohir manages between quiet chuckles.

"I said nothing!"

"You were thinking it!"

"Evidently you were too, else you would not share my amusement."

"Well I think-"

"Quiet, both of you!"

At the ranger's sharp tone, both elves straighten up and their shared joke ends instantly.

"Orcs."

"You must have been followed!" Elrohir's face which only moments before was contorted with mirth is now a mask of stone, but his eyes betray him. They dart from tree to tree, scanning for some unknown danger that scares the elf to his marrow. Orcs are the twins' nemesis. Both of Elrond's sons carry with them a hatred and fear of Orcs that seems almost unexplainable to any who do not know their history.

"I wasn't."

That very instant, a noise like a thousand hands hammering on the skins of a thousand drums erupts through the still night, quickly followed by shrieks and catcalls, jeers and malevolent laughter.

"We're surrounded!" Elrohir hisses, and the three companions reach for their weapons. Arathorn has his hand on his sword hilt, Elrohir has an arrow fitted to his bow string, and Elladan readjusts his grip on the long, black hunting knives he holds tightly in both hands. They are made of dark steel and stained leather, and are light and small, yet long and deadly. With the right wielding, just one of them could pierce Orc armour like a knife through butter. The elf has the dark, malicious gleam in his eyes that you only see in the eyes of a man before he enters a battle.

But the companions have no time to draw up a plan. The first goblin erupts through the narrow tree-line that very second, roaring a terrible scream that would be enough to set the blood of a lesser man boiling. But these are not lesser men. These men are not mere mortals. Elrohir is the first to respond; his arrow finds its mark before the others have even perfected their stance. However when a second beast breaks through, and then a third, and a fourth, and a thousand more, the archer is at a disadvantage, due to the fact he is slowed down by having to reload his bow string. Nonetheless, he fires arrow after arrow at the oncoming tide of foes, and never misses. Arathorn draws his sword, and the barbed edge where the metal shattered gleams in the starlight as though burning with a silver flame. Every bone in his body aches to cry out his war cry of 'For Elendil!' But he knows he is outnumbered. These Orcs will return to their nest after they have killed him, and will talk of the tall, dark ranger who wielded a broken sword and cried out the name of a long dead king, and even should he be slain, the beasts would seek out his wife, and his children, and Arathorn cannot let that happen. And so he cries out instead 'Elbereth! Elbereth Gilthoniel!' And the Orcs recoil at the name, as the heir of Elendil brings down Narsil and slices through their armour as though it were no thicker than dead meat. Elladan hisses like an angry cat, and his knives flash one last time before their silver blades are doused in the black blood of his foe. He is a lynx. He moves more silently and more swiftly than breath. His knives move mesmerizing fast, a dark blur beneath the dark trees. None who he selects as a target will leave the clearing that night.

It seems as though, despite the odds, the three companions may be able to pull through, that despite the difference the heroes may, just may, manage to thin their numbers enough to escape, until:

"Stop!" A harsh voice calls out above the rest, low and cruel and full of malicious authority. "Stop, or he dies!" The hunters do not listen; the wishes of Orcs mean nothing to them. Elrohir, however, turns to look for the Orc who shouted, and cries out in dismay. Two enormous Orcs hold captive between them the limp form of an elf, dressed all in black, with matted hair that was once a dull blonde, but is now stained red. His eyes are shut. He doesn't appear to be breathing.

"Lathdoriel!" Elrohir calls out, his tone panicked at the thought of his friend being harmed. "Lathdoriel! Stop the fight!"

The other two turn to see the cause of his distress, and immediately take action. Arathorn sheaths his sword clumsily, wincing as for the first time he notices a sharp pain that runs through his upper arm. Elladan, however, doesn't give up so easily, and takes a step closer in an attempt to free his friend. Orc hands find his shoulders and claw him down to his knees. More hands find his brother and force the beloved bow from Elrohir's hands.

"You should not have come here tonight," The fiend that holds a curved scimitar to the throat of Lathdoriel snarls menacingly, glaring at the three companions with a dead eyed stare.

"You should not have dared to cross us, filth," Elrohir spits, angered at the sight of his friend so beat up and endangered, "You know not with whom you quarrel."

"I see three hunters, alone and abandoned by those who had the sense to flee rather than have unnecessary blood spilled," The Orc purrs in a taunting gargle, "They were wise- they turned and ran like _dogs_ when given the choice- something you shall not be fortunate enough to receive..."

"Liar!" Elladan spits, struggling against the withered hands that hold him firmly to his knees. His grey eyes flash with tormented rage. "The Orc scum lies! They were elves of Rivendell- sworn in fealty and in love to The Lord Elrond! They would not forsake their oaths so rashly! They would have died rather than-"

"Elladan," Arathorn does not take his eyes off of the Orc's face as he speaks in a calm, quiet tone that demands to be listened to, "He speaks the truth."

"No! This cannot-"

"Elladan."

The elf is silent.

"The Orc doesn't lie- Silmenath _has_ betrayed us. The others only followed his lead, I am sure; He hinted as much when last I saw him."

"No!" Elladan protests, "Silmenath-"

"Had no love for me, I know. You need not lie for him, I know that he still blames me for the death of his daughters."

"But-"

"Enough of this petty sentiment!" Snarls an Orc from the edge of the clearing, "Slit their elvish throats and have done with it!"

A roar of agreement comes from the spectating Orcs, followed by a clanging and a shaking of sword hilts and armoured hands being banged and shaken against shields and steel breastplates. The beasts are eager for spilt blood. They circle closer and closer around the two captives left standing, and Elladan's struggling does little to prevent a dagger weathered by age and use and stained red by more than rust being held to his throat.

Arathorn moves closer to Elrohir, who is nervously reaching again for his quiver, though he finds there no weapon.

"Have you a sword?" He whispers, and the elf nods.

"We must swap."

"Why? I cannot bear Narsil, my friend, it is yours as much as your name and your title are yours."

"I cannot risk the blade getting into the hands of my enemies."

"Arathorn," Elrohir suddenly looks at him, forgetting for a moment the hundred Orcs closing slowly in around them, waving weapons and screaming for blood,

"Whatever it is you're planning..."

"If you want Elladan and Lathdoriel to live, do as I say."

The elf unsheathes a slim golden sword from a concealed scabbard at his hip, and hands it to his friend, who immediately swings it in front of him, forcing the Orcs closest to him to recoil.

"Take Narsil and get to Lathdoriel," Arathorn commands, "I shall help Elladan. As soon as they both are free, flee for your lives and do not stop until the light of day creeps over the horizon. I shall join you when I am able."

"Arathorn-"

But the Dunadan listens to no more. Like a flash of black light, he springs forward, felling two enemies in a single cut. Whatever had been holding the others in place suddenly vanishes, and they attack from all sides. It takes Arathorn next to no time to reach Elladan, who is held only feet away from him. In three swift motions the Orcs holding the son of Elrond to the ground are fallen, and the elf springs to his feet, knives ready. Elrohir struggles to fend off attackers from Lathdoriel, but his love for his friend lends him strength, and soon corpses are piled up around him. The brothers between them help the elf to his feet whilst Arathorn stands with his back to them, slaying any that attempt to lay steel to his companions.

"Go!" he calls to them, "Leave me!"

Elrohir opens his mouth to say something, but Arathorn stops him.

"I will join you at the Dike 'ere the sun has risen. Now go!"

This is enough to reassure Elrohir, who melts into the pines with Lathdoriel slumped on his shoulder, but Elladan catches something in his friend's eye as he fells yet another Orc, and four more spring up around him in its place.

"Arathorn-"

The Heir of Elendil swings the borrowed blade one more, and turns in the seconds between attacks to look for the last time upon the face of his dear friend.

"Weep for me, my friend," he whispers, "And tell Gilraen-"

But Elladan never finds out what it is he has to tell Ivorwen's daughter. A mighty roar of challenge echoes through the low-boughed trees, and Arathorn turns to greet his death with open arms. Arrows begin to fly out of nowhere- every single one focused on the mighty chieftain. The first few hit the metal plates that cover his shoulders, and glance off, but as they keep coming it becomes harder for him to avoid the rusted metal rain that sing songs of doom as they leave the twisted bows of the Orcs.

From somewhere beyond Elladan's line of sight, another arrow soars. The tattered fetching and the short shaft are stained black with some foul canker, the broad head is blunt and stained copper with rust. In appearance, there is nothing to distinguish it from the rest of the Orc arrows, but even through the rain of deadly shadows, this particular raindrop catches Elladan's attention. He knows. He can feel it in his bones. It is the one.

As it reaches the peak of its journey through the air and begins to fall, the elf's mind slows until he can see everything with perfect clarity and at a crawling rate. The arrow begins its decent that to the son of Elrond will last a thousand years. He tries to cry out, to move, to do anything to save his friend, but he cannot. He can only watch as the rain continues to fall, fall closer and closer to the already scarred and blood-stained face of Arador's son.

It finds a target: a grey circle of light in a sea of white.

Arathorn doesn't even have time to scream in pain before the arrow sinks through his eye and into his skull and kills him stone dead.

Time returns to normal. Elladan's body follows the instructions of his brain. For a second, he stands there. And then the elf flees, refusing to follow the chieftain's last command and weeping tears of sorrow for his passing. But he knows Arathorn was right. Tears are for women, not warriors with lives to avenge and answers to seek.

* * *

The sun is low in the morning sky and casts a dim light over all through the gloom of desolate fog. Children play in the village, squealing and giggling with delight as dogs jump up at them with soft fur and warm tongues. Women stand close by, watching their children from a safe distance and gossiping happily about a wedding that is soon to take place between some young couple newly betrothed. Gilraen would be with them, but she cannot rest. She never can when her husband is away- it sets her on edge, the thought that this might be the time that he never returns. She is confident though, he is accompanied by some of the greatest warriors she knows- the elves of Rivendell are mighty company to keep, and the sons of Elrond are renowned throughout the North as strong fighters and noble lords. She knows there is no reason to worry, that he shall return to her soon, but some sixth sense whispers to her through the cold morning as she stands apart from the other women that all is not as it would seem.

The horn blows to signify the return of the men, just as it has done all her life, yet instead of waiting with her children for her husband to come to them, Gilrean springs forward and rushes through the houses to the gates, where he will be waiting for her.

As she passes him, little Aragorn cries out, appalled that his mother is abandoning him, even if it is only for a short while. Meldiriel says nothing, but looks after her mother with her young eyes, and begins to toddle after her. A woman notices their distress and comes over, swooping down to pick them up and crooning over the young Dúnedain, telling them how their father is back now from mighty deeds, and one day they will be brave knights just like him. Tears well up in Aragorn's eyes, as though some sense is telling the toddler that things are amiss.

It takes only one look at their grave faces for her to know. The twelve that set out has been reduced to only eight. Fathriel, Lantalathon and Geratir are gone, and their companions weep for them, but Gilraen's tears are for one, and for one alone. She falls to her knees as weeps as one who is lost.

At the word from Elladan, his companions leave, Silmenath stricken with a guilt so deep he walks as one entranced. The elf stoops to comfort the widow of his friend, telling her in soft speech how it was that her lover fell, but she doesn't hear a word that he says, nor notices as Elladan lays at her feet her husband's shattered blade.

Gilrean remains there, weeping, long into the night, heeding not the women that swarm around her or the shouts that ring through the village, crying:

_"All hail the twins Aragorn and Meldiriel, Chieftains of the Dúnedain and Heirs of Elendil!"_

* * *

AN: Promise it'll be short!

Hope you like the new chapter, it's a bit different again to the first two, but I promise from chapter four things WILL get more consistent. (The update times won't though...) I can tell you though that with my great regret I can certainly say that this is the last update for at least three weeks. I'm being dragged on a school orchestra tour for the first few weeks of the summer, which I can tell you will be quite possibly one of the worst experiences of my short life. At least it's to somewhere nice- although my Spanish isn't great... I'm not sure yet if that means that I'll have MORE time to write or LESS time to right. It depends on how chatty I get with my room mate, and how board I get on the 36 hour coach journey there. Yay.I have been getting no reviews. I don't know why. There's obviously something up with my writing. Tell me what it is...? I'm suspecting that it's length, but really don't want to edit stuff out...

Anyways. Have a great summer! (See I told you I'd keep it short...)

Aniron xxx :)

* * *

Disclaimer:

I do not own Middle-Earth. The majority of characters are owned by either New Line or The Tolkien Estate, and if I'm 100% honest, the majority of the plot it too. I do not write for my own profit, but only because I have a talent for procrastination and might as well do something constructive with my time whilst trying to put off those really boring things that regrettably are essential for everyday life.

There are also, due to my extraordinarily nerdy nature, a wealth of Fandom references buried in my writing. I don't own them either. As much as I would love to claim that Sam Winchester is mine, he isn't. And neither is Jon Snow. Or anyone else. Just because their names come up in my fanfiction doesn't mean I own them. Wish it did...

Let's make this simple by saying the only character I own is 'The Eledwen' (Or Jaz or Mel or Lio or whatever other name you want to find for her.). Anyone else is either owned by someone else or you are free to use for your own profit or pleasure or whatever. Not that you'd want to.

(Was that okay? Do I need to say anything else? I only have 20p in all the world anyway (YOU THINK I'M JOKING BUT I'M NOT.) so if you try to take me to court you won't get much...)

UPDATE: Said replica of Nenya has £6 postage and packing. I'm going to give this one a miss. Stupid Amazon.


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